


The Oath of Omertà

by ru17



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Kidnapping, M/M, Mafia AU, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Non-Consensual Spanking, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-08-21 09:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16574024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ru17/pseuds/ru17
Summary: “Boss,” Happy tells him when Tony answers the phone. The anxiety in his voice is palpable. “We may have a problem.”Tony lets a tense moment of silence fall over the line as he takes a sip of his scotch. “The fact that you don’t know if it’s a problem or not concerns me.”





	1. Chapter 1

“Boss,” Happy tells him when Tony answers the phone. The anxiety in his voice is palpable. “We may have a problem.”

Tony lets a tense moment of silence fall over the line as he takes a sip of his scotch. “The fact that you don’t know if it’s a problem or not concerns me.”

Happy gulps quietly, but Tony knows the man well enough by now to pick up on the subtlest of his nervous ticks. “There was a kid watching us,” Happy says. “From the roof across Boulder Avenue. He had a camera.”

“A kid?” Tony asks, picturing some 8-year-old Disneyland tourist with a disposable camera. “You’re phoning me during my siesta because some brat took your picture?”

“No, Boss, he was  _watching_  us,” Happy insists, though Tony’s already mentally dismissed this whole thing as another instance of Happy being a dramatic bitch. “And he wasn’t a  _little_ kid, he was a teenager. Noticed him spying as we were scoping out the drop site, but when I sent Harley and Gary to catch him, he pulled some crazy acrobat shit and got away. He scaled the fire escape faster than they could even cross the street.”

“Hmm,” Tony says, purely to humor him. It’s not that he doesn’t take snitches seriously – on the contrary, he didn’t build the largest crime syndicate in New York by ignoring potential threats or not taking his own right-hand man seriously, but when Happy’s bored he loves to embellish small incidences into massive crises. It’s simultaneously his most annoying and most endearing flaw.

“Well, if you ever see this little circus performer again, you know what to do.” He walks over to his island counter and pours himself another scotch, his tone kept even and smooth. “Teach him a lesson, make sure he never thinks about sticking his nose in our business again.” The ice clinks in his glass as he lifts it to his mouth. “And break his camera to pieces.”

Placated, Happy’s voice takes a more confident, self-assured tone. “You’ve got it, Boss.”

—

To say that Tony was surprised when Rhodey called to tell him the operation was crashed by the NYPD would be a colossal understatement.

To say that he wasn’t pleased to hear that Happy and his crew had been apprehended by Steve fucking Rogers of all people and that their supplier was going to do life in the hole would be laughable.

To say that it was inconvenient that his largest trade deal of the entire summer had just gone down in handcuffed flames, and that the resulting financial losses from losing out on sellable product and the costs of bailing Happy and his team out of jail would be considerable, well, that would get you shot.

Tony isn’t in a good mood when Rhodey brings Happy back to the compound. It’s never a good sign when the man calls for a “meeting” down in the workshop, because usually, that means he needs to keep his hands busy with tinkering and inventing so he doesn’t prematurely decide to kill the person he’s meeting with. In this case, while he’s thoroughly livid that Happy has failed him, it  _is_  the first time it’s happened in almost twenty years of dedicated service. Tony’s a crime lord, sure, but he’s not  _unreasonable._

So he pointedly stays focused on the automatic weapon he’s fine-tuning when Happy walks in, letting the man stew in his anxiety for a few minutes while he tinkers. They’ll need to triple their intended weapon trades to make up for the Boulder drug bust, which means many more hours spent in the workshop inventing new gadgets to catch his buyers’ eyes, instead of summering in Italy like he’d been planning.

Happy’s suit has been roughed up, his jacket gone, the fabric teared and torn, his shirt pulling open across his round belly where a button is missing. He’s got bruises and speckles of blood across his face and clothes, but he’s clearly not seriously injured, so Tony doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“So,” he says evenly, still keeping his eyes and hands on the gun he’s working on. “Care to explain what exactly went wrong?”

Happy’s quick to answer, his tone pleading. “Everything was air-tight as usual, Boss. The whole thing was vetted and then vetted again, and then a third time to be sure. You know how seriously I take security.”

“Evidently,” Tony says slowly, “not seriously enough.”

Happy’s face darkens. “It must have been that kid,” he says, angrier than Tony thinks he’s ever seen him. “He must have been watching us again. Must’ve called the cops when he realized the trade was going down. I had guys stationed on the rooves, just in case, but who knows, maybe he was perched on a trapeze rope somewhere.”

“Do you really think making a joke right now is in your best interest?” Tony asks lightly, finally looking at Happy to see the man go pale, his shirt starting to cling to his body from sweat. Tony doubles down. “What makes you think it was the kid?”

“He was the only thing out of the ordinary in this entire situation,” Happy says, somehow still sounding confident in himself despite this massive failure. “And I saw him at the station.” Nervousness clouds his face then, and he looks about ready to piss himself as he quietly adds, “He was talking to Rogers.”

Tony had been about to say,  _There’s no way in hell a teenager just ruined my biggest operation of the year,_  but at the mention of Steve Rogers’ name, as Happy knew it would, Tony’s disbelief turns to rage and he sets the gun down, rounding on the other man furiously. “Oh, was he now. And precisely  _what_  were they talking about, Happy?”

The man shifts his weight anxiously, his forehead glistening and damp from sweat. “He gave Rogers his camera.”

“Well,” Tony says after a long minute, his tone cold and furious. “That settles it, doesn’t it?”

Happy looks up at him hopefully, the nervousness giving way to that usual faithful look of his. Tony turns back to his workbench, effectively dismissing him, his voice returning to its normal detached, flippant tone.

“You know what to do,” he says, knowing the man is nodding without turning around. “Bring him to me.”

—

It takes three days and ten grand paid to a beat cop at the station for Happy to find the kid. Peter Parker, sophomore at Midtown Tech high school for the scientifically gifted, the 15-year-old gymnast who has single-handedly cost him upwards of 2 million dollars. Tony would be impressed if he wasn’t still so completely enraged, so he merely replies to Happy’s report with a cold, “And? Have you brought him to me yet?” which has Happy scrambling to assure him that the kid will be picked up soon.

He doesn’t hear from him again until that evening, Happy’s voice cheerful for the first time in over a week when Tony answers the phone.

“We’re at the compound,” he says, oh-so-pleased with himself. “He’s still knocked out. Where do you want him?”

Tony doesn’t even need to think about it. “Meat locker,” he says, already adjusting the cufflinks on his sleeves. “You know the routine. String him up. And let me know when he wakes up.”

“You got it, Boss.”

He takes his time getting ready. It’s important to look the part when you run a syndicate, but the compound is his home base, so Tony usually only goes to the trouble of dressing up when he has guests. This is inarguably one of those times; while a kid who doesn’t know his place isn’t exactly worth the effort, Tony wants him to know exactly who it is he’s screwed with, who he’ll be begging for mercy from before the night is over.

The simple text of  _He’s awake, Boss,_  brings the first smile to Tony’s face in days. He pockets his phone and makes his way leisurely to the elevator, unhurried. The longer he draws it out, the sweeter the revenge will be.

His thick three-piece suit keeps him warm as he enters the meat locker. Happy says nothing, knowing how Tony likes to play his game, and quietly leaves the two of them alone as Tony looks the boy over.

He’s not surprised that the kid is fit, but he’s surprised by how much he enjoys the sight. He’s short and fair-skinned, naked save for his boxers, his wrists bound together above his bagged head, holding his weight, his toes barely touching the ice-cold metal floor. His arms are trembling from the cold and the exertion, as are his legs, which Tony rakes his eyes over slowly, appreciating the lean, toned muscles of his thighs, the perfect shape to them.

The boy’s stomach is flat and outlined by his still-forming abdominal muscles, not very pronounced yet but still defined enough to be seen. His small chest is littered with bruises, marring his otherwise creamy skin, spattered across his ribs below his small, pink nipples, erect from the cold.

The kid’s arms are as well-defined as the rest of him; the muscles formed but not quite pronounced yet, his body only just beginning to overcome an apparent scrawniness that he’s probably been dealing with his whole life. Tony imagines the classic weak little nerd cliche – the short, thin, geeky kid who took up roof-hopping to try and get fit and accidentally stumbled across his operation instead, which he then decided to interfere with, which unfortunately will be his last mistake.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The kid shifts, still trying to find balance on the tips of his toes, but doesn’t say anything. No matter. Tony continues, “You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess, you know.” He strides closer, trying to keep his gaze on the bag still covering the boy’s face, but he can’t help the way it drifts down again and again to his collarbones, his shivering chest. Tony briefly considers torture of a completely different kind, but thinks better of it; as nice as his body is, Tony’s not interested in kids.

“You’ve cost me a lot of money,” he continues after a moment, still moving in closer. “And I’m not happy about it. You could even say I’m enraged. So I don’t think a smart boy like you needs to be told that this isn’t going to end well for you.”

The boy tries to step back when Tony stops in front of him, towering over him, merely inches away. But his feet are hardly touching the floor and he teeters forward, losing his balance, so Tony lifts a hand and braces him before he can knock into him, his hand pressing firmly against the boy’s bruised ribs.

A strangled, pained groan escapes the boy’s mouth, and the sound is music to Tony’s ears for several reasons. He takes no small amount of glee at the sound of pain, but the high tone of the boy’s voice is sweet and goes straight to his crotch, filling his head all over again with a number of wonderful ideas.

He lets his thumb idly swipe over the small nub of the boy’s nipple, making him gasp, loving that sound, but still not entirely enthused about the idea of taking this  _child_  – attractive or not, Tony’s simply not turned on by the idea of playing with some snot-nosed, pimple-faced, whiny teenaged snitch.

 _It’s a shame,_ Tony thinks to himself as he grabs the hem of the bag and starts to lift it up to pull it off the boy’s head.  _Letting a body this nice go to waste._ “At the very least, I hope you’re regretting the choices you’ve made –”

The bag hits the floor as the air leaves Tony’s lungs. Of all the things he was expecting this kid to look like,  _this_  was not one of them. That quivering mouth, framed by delicate, pink lips, pulls tight into a defiant frown when the kid looks up at him. His skin is as soft-looking and unblemished as the rest of him, creamy white except for the redness of his cheeks and nose from the cold.

His mussed, dark brown hair falls in wild chocolatey curls from the bag messing it up, covering his adorable ears and falling across his forehead, almost reaching – fuck, his  _eyes._  Tony loses himself in the depth of those eyes, glaring up at him rebelliously, large and dark and overflowing with fear and stubborn defiance all at once.

Tony opens his mouth to speak but no words come out, unable to form a coherent thought as he’s struck by how completely fucking beautiful this boy is. Then Peter opens his mouth and says, in a brazen tone that can’t quite hide how frightened he is, his voice trembling, “I don’t regret a  _thing._ ”

 _Neither do I,_  Tony almost says, his blood flowing straight to his cock, already stiffening from the sight of this boy and the beautiful sound of his voice. He can’t let Peter’s actions go unpunished, but now that he’s seen the kid’s face, all earlier thoughts of torture have left him in exchange for things he know will be much more fun.

He gently cups Peter’s cold cheek, warming the skin, thrilled to discover it’s as soft to the touch as it looks. Peter’s glare falters, the fear seeping in, glancing quickly over Tony’s face like he can’t quite read his expression.

Tony smiles and pets his cheek, not allowing Peter to pull back when he tries.

“You will,” he promises him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tempted to call this fic Peter Parkour just so you're all aware


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you know who I am?” Tony softly asks, still petting the boy’s pale, cold cheek.

Peter’s glare hardens into a look of absolute hatred. “You’re the reason my uncle is dead.”

Tony raises a brow at him, his hand falling away in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Tony Stark,” Peter clarifies, tone cold and dripping with anger. “The Merchant of Death. You’re the guy who got rich making dangerous weapons and selling them on the streets.”

“And let me guess,” Tony replies, probably too casually, but he can’t help the fact that it’s hard to take the boy seriously when all he can think of is how beautiful that face looks glaring up at him like that, how attractive he makes being angry look. “Someone took one of my weapons and killed your uncle with it?”

Peter’s eyes narrow, which is all the answer Tony needs. He sighs, one hand stuffed in his pocket so the other can gesture while he talks. “Look, my condolences to you and all, but regardless of your motivations, sticking your nose into my business was  _not_  the smart thing to do. You’ve successfully caused me a lot of trouble.” He can’t help the smirk that crosses his face as he peers at the boy over the rim of his sunglasses. “But I’m a merciful guy. So how about we make a deal.”

He finally lets his hand travel back up to Peter’s face, cupping his chin and dragging the pad of his thumb over his soft bottom lip. Tony leans in closer, speaking so softly that it’s almost a murmur. Peter’s eyes go wide and fearful.

“I’ll let you work off the money you’ve cost me.” His other hand trails down Peter’s side until it lands on his hip, where he caresses him. “If you’re a good boy and you do what I say, I’ll let you go home when I’m done with you.”

The fear on the kid’s face morphs back into incredulous anger in an instant. “I would never work for you!” He tries to pull back, but Tony’s hands on his face and side keep him still. “I don’t care how much stupid money you lost, you’re a criminal and I’m  _glad_  Captain Rogers busted you!”

Tony takes a step back and strikes the boy hard across the face without a hint of hesitation. Defiance is cute, but he never tolerates talking back, ever.

Or the mention of that name.

“Let me rephrase that. I’ll make you a deal, or you can accept the much-less-pleasant alternative, which is that I’ll go with Plan A and take my frustrations out on you before leaving you to freeze to death in this meat locker.”

The boy’s fifteen, so Tony absolutely expects the threat of torture and death to be more than enough to turn him into a begging, sobbing mess, pitifully crying that he’ll do whatever Tony says if he lets him live.

But while there is unmistakable fear in Peter’s eyes, to his complete shock, the boy merely glares up at him harder and says, “Do your worst.” Holding his face up like he expects to be slapped again, such misplaced bravery. “I’ll never work for the likes of you.”

Tony lets his surprise stay hidden beneath his sunglasses as he pretends to ponder the kid’s answer. “Do my worst, huh?” he repeats, nodding to himself like he’s thinking it over. “Well, if you insist.”

—

One of the many things Tony’s mastered in his long career of running a mob is how to call people’s bluffs. It’s a necessary skill, being able to outsmart your opponent, tricking them into doing the opposite of what they want. Tony’s as talented at that as he is at everything else he does, so he has no concerns whatsoever that calling Peter’s bluff will be no different.

Happy is waiting for him outside the locker when he exits, confusedly scanning Tony’s bloodless hands and clothing with one eyebrow raised. “What happened, Boss?” he asks, trying to peek behind Tony as the heavy metal door slams shut. “Did you kill him?”

Tony smiles, wide and wicked. “On the contrary, Happy, my darling,” he replies, removing his sunglasses and pocketing them. “I’m going to keep him.”

Happy’s face twists into shock and disbelief. “ _Keep him?_  What for?”

“Entertainment,” he says, then clarifies, “Mine, specifically. Nobody else touches him, except in the event he makes a break for it. I want him all to myself until I’m finished with him.”

The other man suddenly looks tired, partially exasperated, and he sighs and asks, “And how long will that be, exactly?”

Tony’s smile deepens, darkens.

“Until I break him.” He starts walking down the hall, Happy immediately following behind him. “He’s a little riled up right now, so I’m letting him … cool down, so to speak.”

He can practically  _feel_ Happy rolling his eyes behind him.

“In the meantime,” Tony continues, “I want to learn everything there is to know about Peter Parker. Family history, grades, hobbies, friends, everything. If he’s so much as kissed a girl behind the shelves of books in his school library, I want to know about it.”

“Uh, okay,” Happy says, the furious scribbles of him writing down Tony’s demands in his little black notebook filling the hall. “Sure thing, Boss. You just gonna leave him in there while I work on this? He probably won’t last long in that temperature … ”

Tony lets out a little laugh as they step into the elevator. “Don’t worry, Hap. All your investigating won’t go to waste – I won’t allow him to die that easily.”

“Goody,” Happy says, sarcastically.

“If he gets too cold,” Tony says, ignoring the other man, “I’ll warm him up myself.”

Happy sighs again, pressing a button on the panel to stop the elevator at his personal floor. “I wish you’d just kill him and be done with it,” he says as the doors open. “I’m telling you, that kid’s far more trouble than he’s worth.”

“I disagree,” Tony replies smoothly, giving his right-hand man a patient, predatory smile. “I think he’s the perfect amount of trouble.”

—

Tony lets a few hours go by before he decides to visit the boy again. Enough time has passed for Peter to re-think his earlier refusal, and the uncomfortable temperature, lack of food and water, not to mention painful position of being strung-up like that, have undoubtedly taken enough of a toll on his unruly little prisoner.

He’s practically beaming as he makes his way down the hall toward the meat locker. Tony’s a man who loves a challenge, who loves getting his way, and Peter is a beautiful little doe-eyed doll who offers both of those things at once. He’s mature and smart enough not to get on Tony’s nerves the way other kids do, but young and pure enough to arouse his deeper, darker fantasies. Tony’s downright giddy as he pushes the heavy door open, excitement building in his chest at the thought of seeing his pretty new toy again.

But that excitement turns to white-hot rage and disbelief when he sees the locker empty. The bag that covered the boy’s head is still lying where Tony dropped it, but it’s joined by the heavy, thick ropes that’d been used to keep Peter suspended, unravelled in a pile on the floor.

Tony manages to be impressed for a total of two seconds before he’s yanking his cellphone out of his pocket. He presses the number for Happy’s speed-dial and grips the phone in a firm, white-knuckled fist as it rings, Tony impatiently waiting for the man to answer.

But he doesn’t. The phone just rings, and rings, and  _rings._  Tony’s anger spikes, but it’s overshadowed by confusion. Happy has never, in all the years he’s worked for him, missed a call  – not while driving, not while sleeping, not even while having sex  – so the idea that Happy would not answer  _now,_  when a kid like Peter Parker is loose in his compound, gives Tony just enough doubt to not be murderously angry.

Lucky for Happy.

Tony wastes no time turning on his heel and storming his way to the elevator, dialling Happy’s number again, and again, and again, going to voicemail each time. It gets to the point where he’s actually hoping Happy won’t answer, because if he does, and if Tony were to find out that Happy had failed to answer his call four times while Tony’s newest pet is on the run, well. He cares for Happy, but a mistake like that really would cost the man his life, and that would be unfortunate.

There’s still no answer as Tony steps into the elevator and begins ascending. He taps his foot impatiently as the machine takes him up, his anger billowing as it comes to a stop and the doors slowly pull open. Tony shoulders his way through them, urgent, scanning Happy’s personal floor as he steps out. Nothing seems out of place, but the entire apartment is deathly quiet.

Tony is as silent as a mouse as he walks through the apartment. He steps lightly so as to not make a sound, checking every corner for any sign of Happy or, more surprisingly, his fugitive. There’s no sign that either of them are here at all, every single room checked, until Tony comes to the end of the hall: Happy’s bedroom.

The door is slightly ajar, but what Tony picks up on is the faint sound of someone rifling through the dresser, drawers opening and closing, clothes being tossed aside and hitting the floor. Tony peeks in, and all his anger is smothered by the perverse glee that fills him.

He silently pushes the door open and leans against the frame.

“Don’t bother getting dressed, sweetheart,” he says, startling the boy out of his wits. “I’m just going to take it off, anyway.”

Peter whips around and fixes him with a heated glare, clutching a much-too-large shirt in his hands. The suit pants he has pulled up to his waist are so comically too large for him that he has a long-sleeved shirt tied through the belt loops to keep them up, since none of Happy’s belts would fit him.

Speaking of Happy, Tony spots a pair of feet sticking out from under the bed, and raises an eyebrow at the boy questioningly. “For your sake, he’d better be alive.”

Peter’s glare hardens. “He’s alive. I’m not a murderer like you.”

“How sweet,” Tony replies, stepping out of the doorway, slowly advancing on him. “You’re a very surprising young man.”

“And you’re a very predictable crook,” Peter spits.

Tony grins. “Oh, I  _like_  you,” he says, taking another long step, backing the boy into a literal corner of the room. “I’m going to enjoy breaking that impudent attitude of yours down bit by bit.”

“Is that what you wanted this for?” Peter asks, lifting up Happy’s little black notebook, to Tony’s surprise. “You asked your lapdog to dig up dirt on me for this sick little game of yours?”

“I did indeed,” Tony says, apparently surprising Peter with his honesty. “Happy isn’t my lapdog, however. That position would be better suited to  _you,_  in time.”

“I’m not that easy to manipulate, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, and the bold fire in his eyes makes Tony believe him. “And I’m definitely not that easy to kill.”

Tony almost screws up and tells the boy that he’s moving further and further away from killing him every minute they spend together. The last thing this runt needs is more reason to be defiant, so taking away the threat of death would be unwise, but every word out of his tempting little mouth stokes Tony’s desire to keep him forever.

“I never said you were easy,” Tony replies, his arms reaching out to box Peter between the dresser and the wall. “I don’t  _like_  easy. Easy is no fun. You, however, have been an absolute delight since the moment you were brought here. How did a little thing like you break out of that meat locker and take down my right-hand man? He’s three times your size.”

He can’t resist lifting a hand to cup the side of the boy’s face, once again struck by just how beautiful this ethereal creature is. Tony strokes his thumb across Peter’s soft cheek, leaning in, lost in those dark angry eyes and those slightly-parted pale pink lips, so inviting, Tony wants to bury his hand in the boy’s hair and taste that sinful little mouth for himself.

But Peter leans as far back as he can, hitting the wall, and keeps his tone cold and furious as he says, “You wanted to know more about me, right?” He holds the notebook up, not looking away from Tony’s eyes. “Here’s something.” Tony balks, eyes widening at the honest-to-God smirk that crosses Peter’s face, fuck, the kid is so beautiful, Tony wants to keep him smiling like that always. “I’m a lot stronger than I look.”

Tony doesn’t have time to ponder or question that sentence before a knee is being driven right between his legs. He crumples to the floor with a gasp that turns into a long groan of agony, but the pain is whited out by the sound of the kid making a break for it, leaping over his curled up body and bolting for the door, escaping. Tony forces himself to stand despite the overwhelming pain radiating from his balls all the way up into his chest, and taps his wristband to secure the building, putting the compound into lockdown mode.

He staggers over to the computer at Happy’s desk, turning it on and accessing the security system within seconds. It doesn’t take him long to find Peter, already on the main floor, escaping through the front door, running from his guards. Tony makes quick work of locking the gates, ensuring no one can come in or out of the grounds, and then slowly limps back toward the elevator, smirking.

 _Oh, baby boy,_  he thinks as the elevator doors close.  _You’re not going to enjoy the punishment Daddy gives you when he catches you._


	3. Chapter 3

Peter’s never run so fast in his entire life.

Wherever he is, it’s large and maze-like enough that he doesn’t even know if he’s heading in the right direction to get out. He vaults over a retaining wall, headed for what he assumes is the driveway out of this – estate? Compound? Something like that – narrowly outrunning the guards close behind him.

He doesn’t know where he is relative to Queens, but as long as he gets far enough away from Stark and his gang, he’s sure he can make his way back home. All he has to do is not get caught. Simple. Peter is  _fast._  And if weren’t for the ridiculously-too-big clothes hanging off him, he’d be even faster. But at least he isn’t trying to escape in his boxers.

The driveway loops through an extravagant garden, and Peter momentarily considers bolting for the forested area off to the side, to try and lose the guys chasing him, before he abandons that thought completely. If he doesn’t get out of this place now, they’ll be blocking the exits while he’s trying to shake his pursuers. If they haven’t already, of course.

As the road bends into a sharp turn, Peter agilely leaps over a landscaped bed of flowers and comes to a grinding halt as a guard comes around the corner, waiting for him, arms outstretched to grab him. Thinking fast, he sweeps the guy’s legs and dives under his flailing arms, before booking it for the gate he can now see just up ahead. The fence is huge and thick, with barbed wire at the top, but it’s better than slowly freezing to death in a giant meat locker. He has no intention of going down without a fight.

Another guard tries to intercept him, and Peter smirks, seeing the perfect opportunity before him. The guy lunges to grab him, and Peter jumps, mid-run, and plants one foot on the guy’s shoulder, using him as a platform to leap for the top of the fence. The guy is knocked back, landing hard on the ground, but Peter’s already using the momentum to propel himself up the tall structure, until he reaches the barbed wire at the top.

There’s no time to be careful about it. Peter grits his teeth and braces himself.  _It’s better than dying,_  he reminds himself.  _It’ll hurt, but it’s better than being tortured to death._

He throws himself over the top. The barbed wire catches on his bagging clothes, ripping them, tearing his skin underneath as he struggles until his weight lets him fall on the other side. He rolls as he hits the ground, rocks and the uneven ground bruising his already aching body, but there’s no time to sit and rest. The gate begins to slide open, the guards already running to push through, so Peter forces himself up onto his legs and runs into the forest.

The road is too risky. Yes, there’s a chance he’ll find someone to help him, or that it will lead him back to the city, but if they follow him in a vehicle, it’s all over. He can’t risk them pursuing him in a car, so he chooses the woods instead, even though he has no idea where he is or where he’s going, and the dense trees cut and slice his body as he runs through them, marring his already marred skin.

As he continues to run, he can’t help but smile to himself. He’s done it. He’s gotten away from the Merchant of Death. He’s literally escaped death itself. His smile widens, huge and brimming as the runner’s high kicks in and he realizes that  _he’s won._

And then the baggy legs of his pants catch on a protruding root, tearing, and sending Peter careening to the ground. He yelps and tries to catch himself on his arms, but there’s a slight hill under his feet and he goes down hard, thrown by his own momentum and crashing hard into the trunk of a tree as he hits the floor. Peter hears the very alarming  _thunk_  of his head cracking against the tree, and lies there, trying to fight the encroaching darkness as his vision starts to go black.

He needs to get up. He has to. He has to get  _away._

He hears footsteps approach from behind him. Peter groans and tries to push himself up, his balance off, sending him back down to the ground again and again. An ominous, icy chuckle is the last thing he hears, and the horrid, terrifying feeling of hands wrapping around his waist is the last thing he feels before he finally passes out.

—

Peter doesn’t know where he is when he wakes up.

He’s lying down on a bed, from the feel of it. But the room is unfamiliar and he has no idea why he’s here or how he got here. His head is throbbing horribly, the room dim but somehow still too bright, and the pain is the only thing keeping him from freaking out about not knowing where he is.

He doesn’t remember anything. And then Peter tries to lift his hand to rub his aching head and finds out he  _can’t,_  and looks down and sees his wrists, both of them, strapped to the side of the bed like he’s in a mental hospital, and he frantically wonders why the hell he’s restrained until he remembers.

It’s very hard not to start sobbing when he remembers.

Peter forces himself to take a deep breath, collapsing against the bed and trying to breathe through the pain radiating in his head and the panic raging in his gut, and pulls at the cuffs on his wrists, trying to feel if there’s a knot he can undo, like he had in the meat locker. His entire body protests in pain, flaring up all over him, but Peter ignores it and concentrates very hard on getting his wrists free.

“Easy there, kiddo,” comes a voice, startling him. Peter’s eyes shoot open and he turns his head, too hard and fast, wincing from the pain as his eyes land on Tony Stark himself. “You gave yourself a pretty good concussion.”

Peter narrows his eyes into a glare, knowing it won’t do much, but refusing to let the man see how scared he is. “Where am I?”

Tony smiles. “You’re still at my compound. The medical ward.” He strides closer, clearly enjoying that Peter can no longer back away from him. “Just until my doctor has confirmed it’s not too serious.”

Against his better judgement, Peter presses his eyes closed, his head throbbing painfully from the dim lighting. “You even have doctors working for you?” he asks. He wanted the question to be biting, but it comes out as a pained whisper. “Is there anything you haven’t bought?”

“Nothing,” the man says. Peter’s eyes shoot open when the bed shifts, and he sees Tony take a seat beside him like they’re old friends, showing as little respect for his personal space as he has since Peter was brought here. “Get away from me!”

“Shh,” Tony says, reaching over and caressing his cheek, smirking as Peter tries to lean away but is unable to. He has nowhere to go. “You’ve already racked up quite the punishment for yourself, sweetheart. I wouldn’t recommend making it any worse by being rude.”

“You don’t scare me,” Peter seethes. “Just because I can’t stop you from killing me doesn’t mean I’m going to cooperate while you do.”

A smirk tugs at the man’s lips.

“And if I said there’s a way you  _can_  stop me from killing you?”

Peter raises an eyebrow at him suspiciously. “I said I’d never work for you, Mr. Stark.” He meets the man’s eyes, glares, trying to sound as tough and composed as possible. “Unlike everybody else who works for you,  _I_ can’t be bought.”

“Maybe not with money,” the man says, grinning. “Maybe not even for your own life, which I’m not completely convinced of, but is endearing to hear either way. But everyone has a price, my little runaway, and I think I might just know yours.”

Peter tenses as the man reaches into his jacket, scared he might pull out a gun or a knife or something, but when he pulls his hand out clasping a familiar black notebook, Peter knows his face scrunches up in confusion.

Tony opens the book and thumbs through several pages, before getting to the one that hopefully has his point written on it.

“Peter Parker,” he reads, his tone smarmy. “Fifteen years old, sixteen this August. Sophomore at Midtown Technical High School for gifted students of STEM, member of the Decathlon team and the marching band club. Classically-trained ballet dancer, recreational interest in parkour. Small but close group of friends.”

The man’s tone changes slightly, like this is the part he wants Peter to listen to, and Peter feels ice shoot through his veins as a chill runs down his body. “Orphaned at six. Only remaining living relative: an aunt, May Parker, age forty-two. Widowed. Current address: apartment 701, 381 23rd Avenue, Queens, New York.”

He closes the book, snapping it shut before pocketing it and pulling out a cellphone from his jacket as well, making eye contact with Peter as he thumbs across the screen and then holds it up, so he can see the photo displayed on it. “I believe this is her, yes?”

It feels like his heart is stuck in his throat. The photo is of May, carrying groceries outside their apartment, heading straight for the front door. In the photo, Peter can see the inside of a car, like it was taken from someone sitting in a vehicle right outside their building. He can see an arm resting on the car door, the man’s elbow sticking out the open window, a silver gun visible in his hand.

“Don’t,” Peter says immediately, understanding exactly what the man is saying. What he’s threatening. “Don’t touch her. Please, please don’t hurt my aunt.”

“Gladly,” Tony says as he puts his cellphone away, a gloating smile on his face. “I will very gladly never harm a hair on her pretty little head.” He leans in, lowering his voice, his hand still gently caressing Peter’s cheek. “If you do as I say.”

Dread sinks in the pit of Peter’s stomach. He can’t say anything, he can’t even move. He just stares at the man above him, eyes wide and frightful, trying very hard not to shake like a leaf.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Tony says and lifts his wrist, so Peter can see the watch-wristband-thing under the sleeve of his jacket. “I have men staked outside your apartment as we speak. They’ll trade shifts every few hours. They’ll tail your aunt when she goes to work, to the grocery store, to the police station to report you missing. They’ll be on her all at times, waiting for the second I use  _this,_ ” he lifts his wrist a little higher, gesturing to the band, “to let them know that you’ve been a bad little boy and poor auntie May has to be punished for it.”

“No,” Peter says, hating that he can feel tears welling up in his eyes, hating the grin the man is giving him, shaking his head despite how badly it’s making his brain throb. “No,  _please,_  please don’t hurt her. I get it. I’ll—I’ll do what you say. You can do whatever you want to me. Just  _please_  don’t hurt my aunt.”

Tony grins, a terrifying, evil smile that makes Peter’s legs shake. His head spins, but he doesn’t know if that’s from the fear or the concussion.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the man says with a falsely comforting tone, “that is entirely up to you.”


End file.
